O' unrelenting dolor, on mine
head thou dost drip, mixing
With mine lachrymose
Glossed lips. How much
More canst mine mind
And body take, maybe
I'll set the pencil down,
The more sickly I feel,
Noones hear to listen,
Only hearing is the real.
I guess I'll continue holding
Onto the tightrope that I dangle,
None human-contact in mine angle
to clasp a soulful-hopeful fool as I; none
Lingo of aye from heavens kind, just liquid
I'll sip that wilt fall from mine weary Eyne.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry